


What There Is To Miss

by 8sword



Series: His Fucking Kids [10]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Domestic Castiel/Dean Winchester, Domestic Dean Winchester, M/M, Sex, Stonehenge Apocalypse references, stepsisters!Claire & Emma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-06
Updated: 2014-02-06
Packaged: 2018-01-11 08:32:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1170925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/8sword/pseuds/8sword
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"We have decided," Cas said, "that in order to foster a sense of unity within our developing family unit, everyone is to wear pajamas to breakfast on Saturday mornings."</p>
            </blockquote>





	What There Is To Miss

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vilupe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vilupe/gifts).



**notes:** another repost from tumblr, added to considerably, inspired by [this review](http://ob1kenobi56.wordpress.com/2012/11/26/it-was-a-robot-head-a-summary-and-review-of-stonehenge-apocalypse/) of _Stonehenge Apocalypse_. For my very dearest [loversforlycanthropes](http://loversforlycanthropes.tumblr.com/), with whom all my thoughts are this week. For you, my dear.

 

* * *

 

 

             Dean _can_ actually be the strict parent sometimes. Like when it comes to making sure that if his kids ever do come face-to-face with a supernatural ugly, they’ll be able to kick its ass. Claire and Emma both have to do half an hour of cardio every day, and spar with him or Cas at least three times a week. They keep track on a gold star chart Castiel put up in the kitchen after some teaching seminar he attended about motivational learning. Claire does all the drills and exercise without complaint, even wakes up at five every morning to get her cardio in by going for a run before school. But Emma…

            Well. Getting her to exercise is like trying to get a demon to stay still long enough to be exorcised.

            “I’m too tired to run,” she whines when she gets home from school and Dean looks meaningfully at the chart. “I’ll do it after dinner.”

            “It’s Family Time,” she protests after dinner when the chores are finished and Dean’s clearing his throat and tilting his head toward the chart. “You know Cas likes it when we watch  _Jeopardy_ together.”

            “It’s  _the weekend_ ,” she gasps when Dean’s flipping Saturday Morning Pancakes onto everyone’s plate except hers.

            Dean pulls the pancake pan out of her reach and points at the chart with the spatula.

            Emma’s column is still completelyempty. His, Cas, and Claire’s columns are filled with star stickers. (Because hey, you can’t make your kids exercise if you’re not willing to do it too. Although sometimes he and Cas cheat by counting sex as cardio—a fact he thinks the girls may have picked up on, since one morning after a particularly awesome night, he came down and found ten extra stars placed in both his and Cas’s columns. He hadn’t quite been able to meet either of their kids' eyes for the rest of the day.)

            “You can’t make me exercise on a Saturday!” Emma protests.

            “Not only can I make you exercise," Dean says with a raised brow, “I can make you make  _up_  all the exercise you haven’t done all week. Four and a half hours. Hope you’re ready for boot camp, kiddo.”

            He settles into his chair, rolling up the sleeves of his Men of Letters robe so he can tuck into his super-awesome-and-excellently-fluffy pancakes without getting his sleeves in the syrup. He’s just taken his first bite when Emma’s inevitable explosion bursts out:

            “ _Are you serious_?!”

            Dean chews. Gives her The Face.

 

 

 

            “He looks pretty serious,” Claire says.

            Emma glares at her. “No one asked you, Claire.” She looks to the other side of the table. “Cas!"

            Cas looks up. He’s the picture of bemusement as he cuts his pancakes, eyes bleary behind his black-framed glasses and hair a fucking mess. Emphasis on the fucking, Dean thinks smugly. Their columns deserve about five more stars each after last night. “Yes, Emma?”

            “Can you tell Dean to stop being such a bitch?”

            Cas’s eyes slide to Dean. Dean makes his glare say,  _if you don't back me up on this, you won’t see any of this ass for a month._

            Cas swallows. “I’m sorry, Emma. I’m afraid I have to side with Dean in this matter.”

            “Ugh! Fine!” Emma shoves her chair back from the table. “I’ll go find someone to have sex with for five hours, how about that?”

            “Oh yeah, go ahead!” Dean shouts as she stomps into the kitchen in her hoodie and the gigantic moose-shaped slippers Sam gave Cas as a gag gift for Christmas. “I’m sure someone’ll find you real attractive in that get-up!”

            One of said slippers sails through the doorway and nails him in the side of the head. It bounces off him and lands on Cas’s pancakes.

            Cas blinks.

            “Dean,” he intones.

            Dean’s already shoving away from the table and stomping after Emma. “Am I really asking so much, here? To want you to be able to kick someone’s ass before they kick yours?”

            “Who’s gonna be able to kick my ass?” she shouts. “I’m not even fucking human!”

            “Cas, would you help me out here?” Dean hollers.

            Cas gives a long-suffering sigh. Claire watches him push to his feet and head into the other room. Then she pulls his pancakes toward her and picks out a bit of brown fluff before taking a bite.        

            “Emma,” Cas says when he arrives in the kitchen and finds the two Winchesters glaring at each other from opposite ends of the counter. “Surely you can understand your father’s point of view. His nagging only reflects his desire to make sure you are safe.”

            Dean makes a sputtering noise. “I don’t  _nag_.”

            “Of course you don’t,” Cas says, and trades an eye roll with Emma. “Be that as it may, Dean, perhaps you may understand Emma’s dislike of exercise. Perhaps we could find a more constructive form of it, one more suited to your strengths and weaknesses, Emma?”

            “I guess,” Emma mutters. ” I just…” She mumbles something.

            Dean leans closer. "You wanna try that again in a human decibel?"

            "I said I don't like looking like a freak in front of Claire!" Emma shouts.

            Silence falls. Dean and Cas look at Emma while Emma looks at anything but them. Then Cas tilts his head.

             “How do you look like a freak?”

            “All the…’roided-up lifting stuff. And not getting tired, or sweating...” Emma’s glowering at her feet. “It makes it kind of hard to forget I’m not…like you guys.”

            “Emma,” Cas says. “When you reach a point in your life when you would like to engage in intercourse, you will be very grateful for those inhuman attributes.”

            Dean makes a choking noise.

            But Emma perks up. “Does that mean I can go have sex for this week’s exercise?”

            Dean gives her a Glare of Doom made only slightly less potent by his ridiculously long robe. “You just made it six hours of boot camp."

            Emma makes a face, slinks off to her room to get dressed, muttering about fanboys on power trips.

 

\- o -

 

            Claire’s lying on Emma’s bed kicking her feet back and forth when Emma gets there.

            “Figured I’d help you figure out your sex outfit,” she says nonchalantly.

            Emma lets out a bleat of laughter. “Pretty sure if I ever have sex I will  _not_  be asking you for advice what to wear.”

            Claire raises an eyebrow. “If?”

            Emma squirms. Claire waits a moment, then relents and sits up to reach for something on the nightstand. She hands it to Emma. It’s her plate of pancakes from breakfast.

            Emma’s eyes light up. “For me?”

            “No, I brought them to your room so you could watch me eat them,” Claire deadpans.

            “That’s probably the sort of sadistic kinky thing you would do,” Emma says, taking the plate and forking three pieces at once into her mouth. “Remind me never to have sex with you.”

            Claire takes the edge piece Emma offers her. “Never have sex with me.”

            “Not now,” Emma says with an eye roll. “When it’s relevant.”

            “We’re on your bed in our pajamas eating something sticky and licking our fingers,” Claire says. “How is it not relevant?”

            Emma turns dark pink and shoves her foot against Claire’s butt to push her off the bed. Claire topples off of it, laughing. Emma takes off Cas’s other moose slipper and chucks it at Claire’s head.

 

**\- o -**

 

            So, Cas is pretty possessive of his Saturdays. Dean never would've seen it coming, but if you ask Cas to do anything on a Saturday that isn't eating, watching TV, or grading papers while doing one or both of the above, he'll go all Electric Blue Eyes of Wrath and stare you down like he's mentally willing you to burst into flames.

            "Jeez," Dean mutters as he backs out of the living room on one such occasion. "I was just saying it would be nice if you'd go pick up some tomatoes."

            Emma walks past him into the living room. She, like Cas, is still in her pajamas. It's like these two don't even realize it's already two in the afternoon. "Tomatoes for what?"

            "For dinner, that's what."

            Emma flops onto the armchair. "Just order pizza."

            Cas makes an approving sound from his spot sprawled on the sofa, where he gets the best view of the television.

            Emma sits up on the cushion suddenly. "Dude, is this the _Sharknado_ sequel?"

            Dean makes a disgusted sound and leaves the two of them to it. He gets that Cas finds Discovery Channel and the History Channel boring, since everything on them is like a rerun for him, what with the whole ancient former angel thing. But his penchant for lame SyFy movies will probably never make sense.

            His crossword puzzle from that morning's newspaper is waiting for him on the dining room table, next to the bottle of syrup still left out from breakfast. Dean plops down in his chair to finish it, grabbing one of Cas's red-inked grading pens from the _World's Best C **ASS**_ mug that's been sitting proudly in the middle of the table ever since Emma painted it for him at that DIY pottery place for Father's Day. Saturday crosswords are always the hardest ones of the week, so he spends most of his time texting the clues to Sam, who texts back, **dean stop trying to make me help u with yr crossword** , but always ends up texting Dean the right answers anyway because he's anal like that.

            It's as he's typing **eastern segment of the louisiana purchase** that Claire comes down the stairs, laptop and history book under her arm. She walks into the living room, then comes right back out again, rolling her eyes.

            "Right?" Dean kicks out a chair for her. "I don't get how they can sit through that stuff."

            "The same way you sat through _Stonehenge Apocalypse_ , I imagine." Claire sits at the table and opens her laptop as Dean's ears turn pink. "You want some music?"

            "Do I want some music," Dean scoffs, regaining his balance from the Stonehenge thing. (Crap, is he that obvious?) "Who do you think you're talking to?"

            He goes to the iPod sitting in its dock in the corner and turns on one of his Zep playlists. He turns it up really loud, getting a shouted "TURN IT DOWN!" from Emma in the living room. He grins at Claire, turning it up louder.

            His phone starts vibrating in his pocket. He pulls it out and sees **_CAS_** on the screen. He winks at Claire and presses the _Answer_ button. "What's up, sweetheart?"

            "Turn. It. Down," Cas's voice says dangerously.

            Dean sighs. Leans over to turn the volume back down. "Happy?" he says into the phone.

            "Yes," Cas says loftily. "You will be rewarded for your compliance."

            The side of Dean's mouth kicks up in a smirk; he puts the phone between his shoulder and ear as he pulls the crossword back to him. "Oh yeah?"

            "Yes," Cas says. " _Stonehenge Apocalypse_ is on at five."

            Emma's shout of laughter rings through the house.

 

 

 

 

 

**\- o -**

            The first weeks--okay, months--they spent together as a quote-unquote _family_ were...rocky. More Himalayas-rocky than Appalachia-rocky, if you know what I mean. Back then, things were still tense and awkward enough between the four of them that even on Saturday mornings they all came down for breakfast fully dressed and groomed because it still felt like they were living with strangers.

            For Dean, who'd gotten used to wearing pajamas (and his robe) in the bunker, it was more of an adjustment than it would have been in the old days, when half the time he fell asleep in motel beds in his jeans and boots. But he'd never lived with teenage girls before, wasn't sure what the protocol was, and Claire came down every morning in her jeans and sweaters with her hair brushed, and Emma did the same, so it didn't feel right to treat their home like _his_ home until they did.

            If that even made any sense.

            In the end, it was Cas who came downstairs one Saturday in October in an old holy t-shirt that used to be Dean's and flannel pajama pants, his hair unbrushed, and yawned un-self-consciously as he shuffled over to the coffee maker. On weekdays, he still came downstairs fully dressed in whatever tweedilicious absent-minded professor ensemble he'd chosen for the day. But when he didn't have classes to go teach, he came downstairs looking as bleary-eyed and muss-haired as Sam ever had, all those years Dean spent dragging the kid out of bed to do their drills for Dad before it was time for school. He didn't seem to feel nearly as out of place among the fully-dressed three of them as Dean did sitting across from him, acutely aware of his carefully gelled hair in contrast to Cas's bedhead. It made him feel strangely uncomfortable. Like he was trying too hard. Like he was the one who was clueless about humanity instead of Cas.

            It didn't help when Emma, tentatively, followed suit. She showed up the next Saturday to breakfast not in her usual defiant ripped jeans and aviator jacket but in a t-shirt and a pair of ancient sweat pants she's had since Dean and Sam took her to Goodwill on that first shopping expedition after Seattle.

            Then Claire joined the bandwagon, in penguin-covered PJ pants and her hair in a messy bun that looked kind of like a hair volcano erupting on the back of her head.

            And maybe the whole waiting-until-Claire-and-Emma-were-comfortable thing had been kind of an excuse, because the next Saturday, as Dean rolled out of bed after telling Cas he'd follow him down in a second, he hesitated in front of the mirror. Rubbed a hand through his messy hair, matted on one side and fluffy on the other. Pinched the worn-thin material of his white Hanes t-shirt in his fingers, eyes seeking out the places he could see old scars through the fabric.

            When he came downstairs ten minutes later, he was wearing his usual layers of flannel and denim.

 

\- o -

 

            What Dean had forgotten to take into account was that Cas was a strategist. Losing his angel powers hadn't removed his skill at tactics, which was why the _next_ Saturday, Dean woke to the feeling of cold legs and something tugging on his hips.

            He cracked his eyelids open against the sunlight coming through the open blinds. A bedheaded Cas was pulling a pair of sweat pants up Dean's legs, over his boxers.

            Dean shifted sleepily. Without thinking, he lifted his ass to help Cas get the waistband over his hips. "Wha're you doing?" he yawned.

            "We have decided," Cas said, "that in order to foster a sense of unity within our developing family unit, everyone is to wear pajamas to breakfast on Saturday mornings."

            It took Dean a sleepy minute to absorb this. It took about the same amount of time for him to realize that Cas was _dressing_ him.

            In pajamas.

            By the time this dawned on him, Cas had succeeded in wrestling him into a t-shirt. Dean immediately rolled over, trapping Cas under him, and said, indignantly and much more awake, "Dude!"

            Cas smiled, mocking. "Dude," he echoed, and trapped Dean's hips between his knees. In one swift motion he rolled them over, sitting back on Dean's thighs. Then he climbed off the bed and tossed something onto Dean. It was soft and warm and smelled of fabric softener.

            "You hadn't unpacked it yet. I took the liberty of doing so. And washing it."

            Dean turned the material over on his chest. It was his gray robe from the bunker. He glanced up at Cas, who looked back.

            A moment passed. Then Cas stepped back to the bed. He held out a hand, and Dean, after a pause, sat up and took it. It was cold, like Cas had his fingers pressed against the frost-rimed windowpane, and Dean automatically closed his own fingers around them, rubbing the familiar knuckles, trying to chafe them warm.

            Cas's eyes slid down to their joined hands. He watched Dean's fingers around his.

            "The things you want for me," he said after a long moment. "I would like for you to have them also."

            Dean fell still. They were both quiet for a long, long moment.

            After a while Cas withdrew his hand from within Dean's. He reached it around Dean instead, pulling the gray robe over his shoulders. Dean stayed still as Cas maneuvered his arms through the sleeves like he was a little kid and then smoothed down the soft material with his palms. Down Dean's arms, his shoulders, his sides. Then he took Dean's hands in either of his own and pulled him to his feet.

            Dean said, "Cas."

            Cas grasped the ends of the robe's sash from either side of Dean's hips and tied them together. His fingers were slow and deliberate. "Dean."

            He looked up. Dean exhaled, staring back. He had morning breath, sour on his tongue, but Cas kissed him anyway. Soft and warm, his hands coming up to the side of Dean's face, still holding the tie ends so that the soft material tickled the bottom of Dean's lip.

            "There," he said against Dean's mouth. His hands drew down his neck, to either side of his robe and pulled the two sides together, hiding all but the collar his thin white t-shirt. The ends of the robe tie fell, bounced lightly against Dean's thighs and settled. "You're ready for breakfast."

 

**\- o -**

 

            "Remember Saturday nights before we had kids?" Dean says as they sit on the back porch swing after Jacob Glaser finishes stopping the apocalypse.

            Cas gives him a weird look. "We didn't have Saturday nights before Claire and Emma."

            "Sure we did. That time with Raphael was on a Saturday night, wasn't it?"

            Cas goes a little stiff, and Dean remembers, oh yeah, there was more than one time with Raphael. "I mean the _today you're my little bitch_ time."

            "Ah." Cas relaxes slightly. Then he says, "I don't see what there is to miss. You wouldn't have sex with me back then."

            Dean nearly chokes on his own spit. "What, were you expecting it?"

            "You said you wouldn't let me die a virgin and followed it up with a reference to a homoerotic subtext in a children's television program. Why would I not expect sex?"

            Well. When he put it that way... Dean grins lopsidedly. "Sorry for getting your hopes up, babe."

            Cas regards him steadily. "Are you going to apologize for getting other things up?"

            The bench slowing as Dean stops pushing off from the deck with his foot. He squints at Cas for a moment.

            Cas makes an annoyed noise. "Dean."

            "Give me a sec, I'm trying to figure out if I'm mixing up reality and porn again."

            Cas slides his hands up under the hems of Dean's shirts. "Permit me to help you."

            The chains suspending the swing creak as Dean moves to straddle Cas's lap. The faint murmur of Claire and Emma's voices that had been coming from Claire's open window above them stops.

            "OH MY GOD," comes Emma's voice. "Are they doing it again? They already have their stars for the week!"

            Dean drops his face into Cas's hair to muffle his laughter. Cas lets out a quiet breath of laughter as well, then grabs the swing chain and yanks it vigorously back and forth, producing loud squeaks from the fixture in the wood. Emma and Claire both screech, and there's the sound of Claire's window sash being yanked down with a bang.

            Cas releases the chain and returns his hand to the bare skin of Dean's back. "Where were we?"

            The bench is still rocking unevenly back and forth, pushing Dean against Cas at some awesome angles. "I was making some things up to you."

            "Then you should probably move down," Cas rumbles.

            "Mmm," Dean says, and draws Cas's other hand down, to the inside of his thighs where his knees are braced on either side of Cas's. "You sure?"

            Cas strokes the denim behind where Dean's arousal is already starting to push forward against the hard inseam of his jeans. The jeans are one of Dean's more ragged pairs, a frayed hole forming in one of the seams that Cas hooks his finger into, wiggles to widen it.

            Dean makes a half-hearted sound of complaint that's totally negated by the way he pushes forward into Cas's hand.

            "We should probably move this off the swing," Cas breathes into Dean's neck. He drags his open mouth down the skin.

            "Hell no," Dean mutters into his hair. He plants his elbows on the back of the swing and rocks forward, sending the swing creaking back again and getting some beautiful friction against Cas's finger.

            It's clumsy work, getting Cas's jeans and then Dean's undone, but it's worth it when it's done, the hot rub as the swing rocks back and forth. They're both sweating in the June night, and Dean swipes a hand down the back of his neck, then Cas's, and starts to strip them both in his sweat-slick palm. Cas's fingernails are digging into the back of his thighs, slippery from sweat there, too, and when they come, it's as warm as the night air, like more sweat trickling down their skin.

            Dean struggles clumsily out of his t-shirt to wipe them off, then slumps next to Cas on the swing. They're both breathing hard, radiating heat, and after a moment, Dean slides off the bench to lie out on the porch floor, pillowing his head on Cas's bare foot. He closes his eyes, listens to the cicadas and Cas's breathing. Feels the sweat trickling from his temple into his hair.

            Cas flexes his foot gently under Dean's head, slow and rhythmic. It feels weirdly good. He doesn't say anything, and Dean doesn't, either.

            At least not until he says, "Cas, guess what."

            Cas's foot stops flexing. "What?"

            "You're not gonna die a virgin."

            Cas pulls his foot from under Dean's head to give him a shove to the ribs instead. Dean laughs his head off.

 

\- o -

 

            "Emma and I have decided on a new family rule," Claire informs them the next morning. "Emma?"

            Emma picks up a huge, glitter-covered piece of poster board from the table and tacks it up over the star chart.

            It reads,

 

** SEX-FREE SATURDAYS **

**(on which no one is anyone's little bitch)**

 

** FAILURE TO COMPLY WILL RESULT IN PENALTIES INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO: **

**\-- DOING EMMA'S CHORES**

**\-- PAYING EMMA TWENTY DOLLARS PER INFRACTION**

**\-- BUYING CLAIRE A CAR (THAT IS NOT OLDER THAN CLAIRE IS)**

**\-- BUYING EMMA A CAR (THAT IS NOT OLDER THAN EMMA IS--THAT MEANS AMAZON YEARS, DEAN)**

**Sincerely,**

**Your Overlords**

 

**P.S. it was a robot head**

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

Stonehenge Apocalypse gif from [here](http://ryeisenberg.tumblr.com/post/3922305410/it-was-a-robot-head).

 


End file.
